Monday, July 26, 2010
The tempest strikes, tumultous in her dance
A blinding stroke, a roar of rage
It had been forecast.
Rolling squall blows over
A smattering of tears, licking of wounds
Soothing warm winds carress the skin in its place
A brief romance
Respite from that algid sorrow
Till it comes round.
Yet again.
Wenky
11:07 AM
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